Down
by zihna
Summary: We all fall down. Or, in which Finch comes to some realizations and Reese breaks from the CIA. Backstory, pre-series, will cover events up until the pilot. Character death, strong language, and kneecaps. Lots and lots of kneecaps.  Six parts total.
1. i

Summary: We all fall down. Or, in which Finch comes to some realizations and Reese breaks from the CIA. Backstory, pre-series, will cover events up until the pilot. Character death, strong language, and kneecaps. Lots and lots of kneecaps. Six parts total.

Author's Notes: Cara Stanton is Reese's CIA partner/handler-thing. Mark Snow is an epic asshole. Nathan Ingram seems like a genuinely nice guy, and I think it's funny that Finch's first alias was "Harold Wren."

Disclaimer: I do not own Person of Interest.

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><p>"So go ahead. Fall down. The world looks different from the ground." -<em>Oprah Winfrey<em>

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><p>Down<p>

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><p><em>May 2010 <em>

_Istanbul_

The Company is, if you ask Cara Stanton, a bunch of fucking idiots. Yeah, yeah, the CIA has one of the highest mission success rates of any intelligence service in the world, and yes their operations are generally quick, brutal, and efficient, and of course their information is generally very good, but still, fucking _idiots. _

She's losing John. Blood bubbles up from between her fingers, warm and dark, and she can feel the edge of bone digging into her hand. He's dying, and the CIA isn't supposed to pick them up for another five minutes.

"Don't wear a wire, they said," she spits, pushing down as hard as she can. "Don't take any cell phones, they said. We'll meet you at the drop, nothing will go wrong, it's just an in and out job, they said. Fucking _idiots_."

In and out job her ass. She doesn't know if the information is bad or what, but there were four more insurgents in the bunker than they told her and now she's got a gash on her face and John is dying.

"Reese," she says, and his eyes flutter open and shut, teeth bared and sticky red. "C'mon, stay awake for me, just for a little longer."

He doesn't give any sign that he hears her, his breathing going harsh and splintered.

"_Fuck,_" she growls, because she will _not _lose him here, on a dusty street in Istanbul because some moron in Ops fed them the wrong information. "Damn it, c'mon Reese, you've had worse, this is just a little bullet hole."

Which is a lie, there's nothing little about it, but whatever, she's good at lying to John. Her sleeves are stained crimson and blood seeps under her knees, but he's still breathing, he's still alive.

Less than a minute now, and she's going to _murder _whoever's in charge because this _should not happen. _People like Cara and John are hard to come by and goddamnit, they shouldn't be sent into hot zones half-blind with an idiot at the wheel.

"Stay with me," she chants. "Stay with me, stay with me."

John's breathing harshens into short, sucking gasps, a wet rattle that makes her skin crawl, but she ignores and keeps pressing down. Father down light spills from an open doorway and people rush out, waving guns and screaming _I see them, I see them! _in Arabic.

"Shit shit shit," Cara mutters, but now above the joyful screams and John's horrible, choking breath is the roar of helicopter blades, and strong white light cuts through the darkness.

The Company's here.

"C'mon, John, hang on for me, hang on," she says, and the insurgents are turning and bolting back into their dark, dusty holes. "They're almost here."

She isn't really aware of the SEALs coming down around them, only that there are bigger, surer hands covering hers, holding John together, and she's being pulled up and away into the helicopter, her vision blurring as the SEAls swarm down and lift Reese up.

Five hours later, when her forehead has been stitched up and her anger has gone from frantic and afraid to strong, hot iron, they tell her John will live, and it is then that she realizes his blood is still dry and crusty on her hands.

* * *

><p><em>New York City<em>

"Weirdest thing," Nathan says, dropping his suit coat onto a chair, already reaching to loosen his tie. "I felt like I was being followed all the way from the bar."

Harold doesn't look up from his computer screen, but his lips twitch into a smile. "You're just paranoid."

"Maybe," Nathan agrees. "But can you blame me? Ever since you told me what that _thing _does—"

This time Harold does look up, forehead crinkling. "It's not a thing," he says.

"Right, right, I forgot, it's your baby." Nathan throws up his hands in surrender. "Seriously, though. I felt like someone was right behind me the whole time."

"The machine is everywhere," Harold points out dryly.

"Yes, thank you for the paranoia, Harold."

"Don't mention it."

Nathan sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. "You sure no one knows about the machine? None of the mobs or anything?"

"Eight people in the world know about the machine," Harold says. "Two of them are in this room and the other six are all high up in the United States government, sworn under multiple oaths to complete and total secrecy. No one else knows."

Nathan nods, sinking into a chair and letting himself relax. "I'm sure I'm just imagining it," he says. His eyes are closed and he doesn't see Harold cut him a long, measured glance.

"Yes," Harold murmurs, fingers blurring at his computer. "I'm sure you are."

"Will's graduation is next week."

Harold raises an eyebrow, his fingers pausing for a second. "And?"

"It would mean the world to him if you were there, you know. He adores you."

"Where is it?" Harold Wren already knows, of course. He knows where it is, what time it is, and how many people will be there. He knows that Will Ingram will be giving a speech and scanning the audience for his father and his Uncle Harold, but neither of them will be there.

"Central Park," Nathan says, smiling at his friend. He's told Harold three times now. "You coming?"

Harold Wren resumes typing. "No," he murmurs. "No, I don't think so. Too much work."

"Come on, Harold," Nathan argues. "You can't possibly have that much to do. Your machine's done, right? Fully operational?"

"Yes," Harold says, because it's true, the machine's been finished for nearly two years now. It is fully operational and self-sufficient, and has brought twenty-two would-be terrorists to the attention of the US government.

And yet…

"It's Will's graduation," Nathan says. "How many times will he get to graduate from college? Just come. Please don't leave me alone with my ex-wife and all her relatives. I'm pretty sure her mother is planning to kill me with knitting needles."

Harold's lip twitches upwards. _Could it hurt? _He thinks. _The machine is fine without me… _Finally, he pulls his hands away from the keyboard and smiles at his friend. "Alright," he says. "I suppose it couldn't hurt. Where is it, again?"

Nathan laughs, relieved. "Central Park. I'll pick you up at ten on Saturday."

Harold nods, standing and rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. "Want to go for a drink? I could use the exercise, I've been in here all day."

Nathan rolls his eyes, because he just came from a bar, he doesn't really need any more alcohol, but if it means he can get Harold out of his work room for a while…

"I know a place a few blocks from here," he says, tugging his coat back on. "They make the _best _martinis in the country, probably the world."

Harold cracks a small smile, looking behind him at the glowing computer screen. He thinks for a moment, and then, like he's afraid he'll change his mind, shuts the monitor off.

Nathan grins, and leads his friend out the door.

* * *

><p><em>Kuwait <em>

Three days after the fiasco in Istanbul, John is still not awake. Cara paces outside of his room, shoes clicking on the floor. They won't let her in, but they can't make her leave.

So far, no one's come to see them. She's kind of surprised—the Company delivers its punishments quickly, and she's still half-waiting for the hiss of a sniper's bullet and then nothing.

Though technically they're still _assets. _Well, Reese is an asset and she's his handler, the only one he really listens to. (They tried, once, to give him to Snow. That arrangement lasted a week and ended with a pipe bomb in a foreign diplomat's car and three men without kneecaps.) As long as he's alive, she is too.

But he almost died.

She turns the memory over in her head—a quiet, dim café, out of the way, in the center of Pakistani control. A back room, full of crates and metal boxes, the smell of ash and gasoline. Seven insurgents—three members of Al-Qaeda, four of Hamas—when there should have been only three, and the click of guns, the sudden burst of light and sound and bullets as Reese lunged forward.

They'd made it out, but barely. She had been grazed by a bullet—there's a four-inch gash on her forehead held together with stitches and glue—and he'd been hit in the chest, breaking three ribs, puncturing a lung, and lodging in his spleen.

They had almost _died _because some screw-up running things got the intel wrong, and _that _makes Cara Stanton furious.

It's a dangerous job, she knows. Every operative, especially the ones like them, fully expects to die in service. It was part of their job—kill and then be killed.

But to die because somebody couldn't be fucked to read the reports right? That's not what she—or anyone else—signed up for.

The Company is going to get them killed, she's sure of it. It's been almost ten years since this whole mess started and they're getting frantic now, frantic and furious, and they're letting intel slide through the cracks and good people, useful people, are dying.

Cara Stanton doesn't want to die, not like that. In a good, clean op, sure. Dying for her country, fine. She's okay with that. Hell, she _expects _that, that's what she wants.

But she's not going to die because the Company wants her dead. She's not going to let them do that, to her or to John.

The sharp click of shoes makes her jerk her head up, reaching for a gun that's not there.

"Easy," Mark Snow says, holding up his hands. "It's just me."

She doesn't relax. "Company send you?"

He smiles. "What, I can't be worried about you guys? I heard that your op went bad, that Team Six had to come in and get you. What the hell happened? That kind of thing never happens to you two, you're the best of the best."

She smiles at him, all teeth and that hot, throbbing anger. Mark fucking Snow. Of all the guys the Director could've sent...

"Our intel was bad," she says. "Somebody fucked up, Mark, and we almost paid for it. There were more insurgents that we were told, and they got the jump on us."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

She has to hold back a laugh. "Sorry," she says. "Right."

"You don't believe me? The Director himself is furious, we've never had such a gross failure in intelligence gathering—"

_Lies, _she thinks. _All lies. _If there's one thing Mark Snow is good at, it's the lying. She's honestly amazed he didn't go into politics with a silver tongue like his. He could fool almost anyone. But the benefits of being a CIA long-term operative, a shadow in the dark, are a healthy sense of paranoia and an excellent bullshit detector, and Snow is _lying. _

The Director isn't upset. The CIA isn't busting balls back home. No one particularly cares that bad intel almost got John Reese and Cara Stanton killed.

"—going home," Snow says, and she blinks.

"Sorry, what?"

"You and John are going home," Snow says. "As soon as the doctors declare him stable, anyway. How is he?"

She shifts in front of the door, blocking him. "In a shitload of trouble, that's how he is. Getting shot in the chest tends to do that to you."

Snow holds his hands up again, saying _look, I'm not the enemy here. _"Relax. A plane will come and pick you two up tomorrow. You'll be home and safe before you know it."

"_Safe,_" she starts, but Snow shakes his head.

"And Cara?" He waits until she's listening, ever the control freak. "Don't tell John what happened."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't. Tell John. What happened. Don't tell him that the intel was bad. Don't tell him that the Company screwed up. We need his faith in us, Cara. Don't tell him."

The threat is implied, and she glares. He nods, smiles, and walks away.

Stanton watches his retreating back, eyes narrowed. Safe, under the Company's protection. The Company, that gave them bad intel, that sent them out again and again to kill, to get tortured and shot and stabbed. The Company.

_Yeah, _she thinks, slipping inside Reese's room, regs be damned. _Right. __  
><em>

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><p><em>New York City<em>

Will's graduation is tomorrow, and Harold (sometimes) Wren, doesn't want to go. It's not that he's not happy for the kid, because he is. Will is _smart, _and he's proud that the kid is graduating and going on to medical school.

But graduation means crowds, and crowds mean people, and people mean danger because Nathan Ingram's number came out of the machine a year ago and Harold is still terrified he's going to die.

The machine doesn't make mistakes. Each and every person that has come out of the irrelevant list has been in trouble. Not all of them die, thankfully. Some of them do, but some of them only get hurt, or some of them are even the criminals.

And Nathan's name came out of the machine.

But it's been a year and he hasn't died. There haven't even been any close calls—he's been safe, comfortable, and _alive _for three hundred and seventy-one days now.

Originally, Harold was going to create a virus that would wreak havoc through Nathan's mainframe, give him a few thousand security breaches to keep him occupied on the day of his son's graduation.

But now…

It's been a year. The machine might have gotten it wrong. Maybe the danger has passed. After all, who picks a target and waits a year to attack them? Maybe whoever was going to hurt Nathan changed their mind. The machine is still fairly young, after all. It hasn't had time to develop the right patterns yet, to be one hundred percent perfect at tracking its subjects.

_Yes, _Harold tells himself. _Nathan is fine. It's been a year. _

Nathan can go to his son's graduation. It'll be okay, for all of them.

He chews his lip, staring down at his computer. He turned the machine over to the government almost two years ago as a complete model, and ever since he's been making minor tweaks here and there. In another three months, he'll be completely done, and the machine will be out of his hands forever.

That thought both terrifies and relieves him.

_It's just a machine, _he tells himself, grapping his suit jacket. _It's just a machine. _

In three months, he won't have access to the machine. It'll be a closed box, entirely self-sufficient and resistant to all forms of hacking. No one will get at it; it will do its job, give NSA the relevant list, and wipe the irrelevant list every day at midnight.

"It will be _done,_" Harold says outloud, pulling his jacket on. It's unnaturally late and he really should go home and sleep. He should forget about the machine and building himself a back door. It's wrong. The machine is not his. It's the government's, it's America's. It doesn't need him, and he doesn't want it.

He doesn't want to know their names and faces, those people that the machine tells him about. He doesn't want to know that Nathan might die tomorrow (_he's safe, _Harold tells himself firmly. _He's safe._). He doesn't want to know these things.

But—

Harold Wren sighs, turning his back on the computer and lines of scrawling code, walking to the elevator.

It isn't his problem, the irrelevant list. It's just that, _irrelevant. _He doesn't need to worry about it.

The elevator doors slide shut and take him down.

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><p><em>Bethesda <em>

"You're awake," Cara says, and John coughs, opening his eyes. He's somewhere warm, white, and clean, and his mouth is desert-dry.

His chest hurts.

"Cara," he wants to say, "where are we?" but it comes out as a bunch of dry wheezing because _ow, _he was shot.

"Easy," Cara mutters. She gives him an ice chip. "We're in Bethesda, Stateside. Welcome back."

He blinks, frowning. The ice tastes good. Stateside? But he hasn't been Stateside in two years. Why are they back…?

_Oh, right, _he thinks. _I got shot. _He's a little fuzzy on the details—he remembers dark and shadows, flashes of gunfire, Cara screaming and then white-hot teeth in his chest, but that's about it. How the hell did he get to Bethesda?

"Snow sent us back," Stanton explains. "Nice of him, right? I think he feels bad. He got you flowers."

Sure enough there are some obnoxiously yellow flowers on his bedside table. How thoughtful of Mark.

"What happened?" he manages, struggling to sit up. Ow, fuck.

"Mission went sideways," she murmurs, petting his hair. "It's okay, don't worry about it. These things happen, right?"

He nods, because they do, especially to someone like him.

"Rest," Cara Stanton says. "We're going to be here for a while, might as well enjoy it."

John Reese closes his eyes and settles back down, trying to breathe without killing himself.

Somewhere in the white above him, Cara laughs. "Isn't it good to be home?"


	2. ii

Here we go, Part 2 of Down! I hope you enjoy! Here the plot thickens :)

Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, fav'd and alerted! You guys make me feel all fuzzy inside. Super love!

Disclaimer: I do not own POI, which makes me very sad.

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><p>Down<p>

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><p><em>June 2010 <em>

_New York City _

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><p>He makes it three weeks before he goes back to the machine. It is a testament to both his willpower and Nathan's uncanny ability to distract him that he makes it that long. As it is, he has only an hour up here anyway. Will leaves for Uganda in the morning and Nathan insisted on drinks before he goes.<p>

He's been doing that a lot recently, insisting on things. One night it's drinks, another it's a jog through the park, or breakfast at the diner, or just sitting together on a bench somewhere, watching the city go by.

It makes Harold's skin itch. Paranoia is, after all, a tough habit to break.

He ignores the itch, though, as best as he can. He's keeping Nathan safe. If he has to be outside in the open to do that, well, he can handle it. He has a dozen other aliases ready to go in case anything happens, and there's always the option of snatching Nathan and Will and just running away, if push comes to shove.

He sits with a sigh, settling back into his old chair. It doesn't feel like it used to, way back when he was spending thirty hours in it at a time, but he hasn't been here in three weeks. Some… discomfort is to be expected.

It feels strange to be here, just like it felt strange to be gone. He's been working in this room, at this desk, in this chair, for eight years. This one project has overwhelmed him since the idea first popped into his head, the day after the towers fell.

But it's finished now.

There is literally nothing Harold can do to it anymore; the machine is done. It runs by itself. It doesn't even notify him when a relevant is flagged anymore—it doesn't have to. It sends the info to the NSA and moves on to the next one.

He misses it. That's the word, he thinks. That's the thing he sees in Nathan sometimes, when they're drunk in his big empty apartment, or when Will talks about going off to Africa and then to Taiwan or Japan or Russia, farther and farther away from his father.

Harold Wren misses the machine.

It's irrational, he knows. Nathan would tell him that the machine just bunch of wires and computers and data, streaming through lines and lines of code. It's not something to miss at all, because it's not a person, not a child or even a pet.

It's a machine.

_But it's_ my _machine_, Harold thinks. He boots up the monitor, settles his fingers on the cold keys. The familiar lines of code blur by, a hundred thousand threads of information that he—or any person—could never hope to understand.

The machine is functioning just fine. Perfectly, actually, with the cold, clinical efficiency the government is so fond of. It tracks data, following people, every aspect of their lives, and, if it sees something, it flags it.

The irrelevant list is small today, only three people. He still has access to them. He can see their names and faces, their entire lives, if he wants to. He has only a few months left to do this, before he closes the system for good.

In a few months, the machine will be gone, and he'll never have to see the names of these people again.

He hasn't told Nathan, yet. Nathan remembers the irrelevant list, Harold is sure of it. He never brings it up, but he gets a look sometimes, when he's staring up at security cameras, jaw set, hands curled into fists, that says he's thinking about the irrelevants.

Nathan wants to help them. He thinks the machine should tell the police about them, should help the police protect them, and Harold doesn't have the heart to tell Nathan that's what the machine does. It helps people.

If it found every single person in the world who was in danger at any single time, it would crash. That's the simple truth of it. He can't build a machine powerful enough to find everyone and still work. It just isn't possible.

The machine can't save the irrelevants, but it _can_ save everyone. That's what it does, goes for the bigger threats so that the rest can be safe.

Nathan just doesn't understand that, not yet. But he will. Harold's sure he will.

He carefully combs over his old files, checking to see if anything's changed. Last week the NSA tried to drill into the servers again, but that's nothing new. The machine made a note of it and Harry checks the firewalls—if they can even be called that—just in case.

He smirks. The NSA isn't going to be getting into his machine anytime soon.

Really, they should know better by now. But, well, some people just don't learn.

After thirty minutes of checking and rechecking the files and lines of code, he can't help himself any longer. He opens the irrelevant list in one quick, vicious keystroke.

Peter Emerson and Sophie Werner are the two newest irrelevants. Peter is an up and coming business man who lives in New Rochelle but makes the trip into the city every day, and Sophie is an elderly restaurant owner in the nicer end of the Bronx.

He has their life stories at his fingertips. The machine found them for a reason. They're in danger. But—

But Nathan's number came out of the machine a year ago and nothing's happened. He's still okay.

So maybe the machine gets it wrong sometimes. It's not a person, after all. It is, in Nathan's words, a bunch of wires and computers and data. It sees what it sees, and maybe it gets some of that wrong—misses some social cue, or misinterprets a voice, or a hundred other things that it could have mistaken.

Nathan is still alive. The machine didn't get it right. Maybe these two, Peter and Sophie, maybe they'll be okay too.

_They'll be okay, _Harold tells himself, and checks his watch. Time to go—Nathan's waiting downstairs, and he doesn't want his partner up here, not right now.

Harold Wren quietly powers off the monitor and steps into the elevator, and does not think about Sophie Werner and Peter Emerson.

* * *

><p>"What did that table ever do to you?"<p>

John Reese looks up from the floor, eyes narrowed into annoyed slits, and continues systematically dismantling the kitchen table.

Stanton sighs, dropping the grocery bags on the counter (still, thankfully, put together). He's been like this for a week now.

"I don't like this either, you know," she says. "I hate this city."

He doesn't answer. Not that she expected him too, but still.

Cara sighs and crouches next to him. She knows better than to try and stop him—the table's too far gone, anyway—so she just waits. He'll talk if he wants to.

It's been three weeks since Istanbul, and they're stuck in some shitty apartment in New York City waiting for the Company to finish its investigation and send them back to work.

_If they ever do, _Cara can't help but think sourly, rubbing the scar on her forehead. Three weeks isn't that long, especially for the CIA, but still, she can't help but feel like she and John are _done_.

And if they are done, it means one of three things. One, they'll be split up and transferred from active ops into Control. Two, they'll be burned and dropped from every agency in the country, left to scrape by in New York. Or three, they'll be killed.

Not directly, of course. The CIA can't go around killing its people, that's just plain stupid, but they _can _send them on impossible ops, or have equipment malfunction, or a million other tiny things in the field that results in some very dead agents.

_I've been doing this job for too long, _she thinks. The Company got her much like they got John, fresh out of active duty, when she was burning with righteous fury at anyone who _dared _attack her country, kill her brothers and sisters, stamp on her flag and spit in the face of her home. She would've done anything for them then, even become a monster in the dark.

But now.

Now, Cara's half-convinced that the Company's trying to kill her.

How else could their op have gone so bad? The intel boys just didn't miss _four Hamas terrorists _meeting up with a bunch of Al Qaeda. It's unheard of, especially for an agency of the CIA's caliber.

But she and John were sent in blind anyway.

Cara Stanton has been a CIA agent for eight years, three months, and nine days. She's been "the dark," as her kind affectionately calls it, for seven years, eight months, and twenty-four days.

The average agent lasts three years and five months. They are killed, crippled, or driven out by what they do and see. Nobody lasts very long, _nobody, _and yet, here she is.

And she's lasted this long because she had a very well-developed sense of paranoia. No, there probably _aren't _people and cameras watching from every window, but she lives her life like there is, and it pays off.

She knows when someone's trying to kill her, and the whole Istanbul incident _reeks _of it.

John doesn't know. As far as Cara can tell, he has no idea that the information was intentionally bad. He still thinks it was an honest mistake. Shit happens, he said a few weeks ago. His trust in his country is unfailing, and it almost hurts to see it.

The CIA tried to kill them, and Reese has no idea.

She can't tell him, either. Mark Snow's orders were very clear. She is not to tell him what really went down. She's to keep him in the dark.

_We need his faith in us, _Snow said. _We need him to trust us completely. _

Stanton sighs, picking up one of the table's legs and absentmindedly turning a screw loose. "How's your chest?" she asks.

"Fine," he says. Of course he says 'fine.' He doesn't want to be here. He hates New York more than she does, which is saying something, and every day he spends crammed in this shitty apartment instead of out _there, _where he can do something for his country, is a day more people die because he's not there to protect them.

Or so he thinks.

She doesn't have the heart to tell him that, in the grand scheme of things, he's not doing much. Yeah, they take down terrorists and some very bad people, but there's always another extremist group, always another traitor, always four more men hiding in the shadows with guns trained at your heart.

In the grand scheme of things, the work they do means _nothing. _

Cara Stanton understands that now. The Company's game isn't for people like Reese who want to _protect, _it's for people like Mark Snow who just plain_ want_—

They run out of table to dismantle.

"I'll have Snow pick up another one," she says, standing up, ignoring the way her back pops. "Or you can put this one back together, if you want."

Reese doesn't say anything, but he certainly looks a bit less… harsh. He's still pretty pale, though, and he winces a little when he stands up. Maybe systematically taking tables apart is good for him. She doesn't know, but whatever.

"Come on," she tells him. "Let's take a look at you."

"Okay," he says.

That is the third word she's heard from him in two days, and she considers it a minor victory. Reese doesn't like being benched. He hates being hurt, first of all, especially bad enough to take him out of the game for a few weeks, and he doesn't like being bored, and sitting in an apartment Stateside with a hole in his chest and nothing to occupy himself with drives him a little crazy.

Hence the now-useless kitchen table.

God, she hopes this mess is cleared up soon. She doesn't particularly want to go back to Istanbul and get shot at some more, but New York City causes her—and Reese too, by the looks of it—physical pain.

"Shirt," she says. He obeys, lifting the edge of his shirt to show her the bandages taped to his side.

Cara peels back the bandages gingerly. Reese doesn't wince. The wound is surprisingly small, but still warm and red and ragged. He sucks in a breath when she pokes it.

"Yeah, no, you're staying here," she says.

He glares.

"Don't even," Cara snaps, tired of him and his impatience, of this shitty apartment in a shitty city, of the CI-fucking-A and their little _games_—

"I'm going out," she says tiredly, letting him slap the bandage back on. "I'll be back. Don't go anywhere or do anything to hurt yourself, understand?"

His mouth thins into a dangerous line, one that usually means someone's going to get shot, but she doesn't even care.

"Stay here," she says again. "I'll be back before midnight."

And, just as quickly as she came, she leaves again, slamming the door behind her.

She's seething, and the stink of New York as she steps outside doesn't do anything to ease her bad mood.

_I'm fucking tired of this, _she thinks. Tired of running, of hiding, of being the monster in the dark, of being shot at and attacked and lied to. It's time for the Company's bullshit to end.

Her mouth set in a grim, determined line, Cara Stanton flips open her phone and calls a few of her contacts and tells them they need to meet.

It's time to get some answers.

She, as angry and focused on her phone as she is, completely misses Mark Snow watching from an apartment across the street, his mouth set in a sharp, dark smile.

* * *

><p>Nathan takes the steps two at a time, muttering furiously under his breath. He is monumentally pissed. Something is very, very wrong, and he's absolutely <em>sure <em>Harold and his machine are to blame.

His long-time business partner is, predictably, up in his workroom, staring thoughtfully at his computer screen.

Nathan's hands tighten into fists.

"Harold," he says, throwing the letter down in front of the table. "_This _was on my desk this morning."

Harold frowns and opens the letter. As he reads it, his eyes get wider and wider—good. He feels something.

"You don't, by any chance, having something to do with it, do you?"

"I've never seen it before," Harold mutters, his frown deepening. "When did you get this?"

"This morning. It was on my _desk, _Harold. _My desk._"

Nathan is the CEO of a rather large insurance company. He's been getting threatening letters and emails all his career, especially in these last few years but _this, _oh, but this. This letter takes the cake.

It reads, in big block letters, WE ARE WATCHING YOU, and taped to the inside is a newspaper article about his company and a grainy security camera photo, dated three days ago.

These people are watching him, and all Nathan can think about is the machine.

"If your machine is doing this," he snaps.

Harold sits straight up, forehead wrinkling. "The machine wouldn't send you threatening letters," he snaps back. "It's a _machine, _all it does is watches—"

"From cameras like that." Nathan taps the picture. "This is me and my _son, _Harold. My Will. They can threaten me all they want, but threatening my son? What does this even mean, "we are watching you?" Is it because of your damn machine?"

"Eight people know about it," Harold says, like he's said again and again before. "It's not because of the machine, none of those people can do anything to you."

Nathan barks out a laugh. "Oh yeah? They're part of the _NSA, _Harold. They can do whatever the hell they want in the name of national security."

"They're not after you," the other man says stubbornly. His lips are white around the edges. He's angry, then, or scared. "You haven't done anything. They think the machine is a closed circuit and they know you can't get to it."

"And is it a closed box, Harold?" Nathan's eyes are hard and flinty. _Someone is watching me. Someone is watching my son. _

He shrugs. "It will be very soon," he murmurs. "Right now I'm the only one with access, and even that goes away in a few months."

Nathan snorts. "You're sure? You're the only one who can use this thing?"

"Yes," his partner promises. "And soon, even I won't be able to touch it."

Nathan looks at Harold, really, really looks at him. The other man is tired. Worn. Which is strange, because last night they went out for drinks and Harold was just fine, if a little distracted. What has him so on edge?

"Could it be someone from the irrelevant list?" Nathan finally asks. Harold goes very still. They haven't spoken about the machine's "irrelevant" list for years now, since Nathan first learned of it. He doesn't know what to say, really, only that _people are dying and we have their names and we aren't protecting them. _

But Harold didn't listen last time, and he probably won't listen now. The years have made him, if possible, even more stubborn and reclusive. He doesn't like people, only Nathan and Will, and he probably doesn't even _care _that there are lives that he could save.

Sure, the irrelevants are one-at-a-time lives, little ones, compared to the "big picture" that is counter-terrorism, but still. They're lives.

"No," Harold says flatly. "The irrelevant list has nothing to do with it at all. It's _irrelevant, _Nathan."

The CEO nods, head tilted thoughtfully. He's not really worried about Harold reading his face, because the shorter man sucks at social and emotional cues. He narrows his eyes.

"Fine," he says. "I'll let it go. You're right, the letter's probably not that big of a deal. I've gotten many like it. But can you just have your machine keep an eye on me? Just in case?"

Harold relaxes, thinking he's won this fight. "I'll see what I can do," he says, and Nathan gives him a small, tight smile. He turns away, and as a result misses the look Harold shoots at his back—half relief, half blind terror.

"Have a nice day," Nathan says, and steps into the elevator. Harold doesn't answer—he's already typing furiously.

_I, _Nathan thinks, as the elevator takes him down, _have some digging to do. _

* * *

><p>If he thinks about it, this is a bad idea.<p>

Cara would not approve. Not that he particularly cares, because she doesn't approve of half the things he does and they're not on Company time anyway, there's nothing she can do to stop him from doing this, but still.

Cara would not approve.

Reese isn't sure he approves of it himself, really. It's a bad idea and he knows it.

But he can't help himself.

New Rochelle is a nice city, even at night. It kind of looks like his old one from way back when, all neat, tidy houses and happy families out by the water. He'd almost like it, but it's a little too crowded for his tastes—though to be fair, everything that isn't a cabin in the woods is too crowded for him—and it feels too _bright, _too clean.

It isn't a place for someone like him.

The taxi driver drops him off outside of a set of nice, neat little houses with a suspicious glance and tapping fingers. It's not that late, though, only nine, and if Reese was a thug he'd wait until a darker hour to go prowling, so the driver lets him off without comment. John pays the man and steps into the clean air, breathing in the taste of salt and suburbia.

This is a bad idea, but he walks down the street anyway, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He nods at the neighbors and smiles at people under his hat, and no one gives him a second look.

The house he's after is at the end of the street, nestled between the ocean and a strip of skinny woodland. It's a nice house, a little on the small side but worth it for the view of the water. Quaint, he'd call it.

(He is, on top of being bored out of his mind, also reading a lot of classic literature.)

This is still a very bad idea, but now that he's this close, well, he might as well stay, right? Waste no opportunities, they taught him. All surveillance is good surveillance.

Not that this is what the CIA had in mind when they trained him. He is still technically on leave, and not allowed to run ops Stateside, but he is bored and tired and he hates New York, and Cara's _off _and he doesn't know what else to do with himself.

And besides, he misses Jessie so much it hurts, sometimes, deep below his ribs like an old knife wound.

_I just want to see her, _he thinks. That's all he wants, one look and then he'll go back to that shitty apartment and put the table back together and let Cara bitch at him. The Company can't keep him out of duty much longer anyway. There's a war on, and they need all the help they can get.

This is just a temporary distraction. That's all it is. One look and he'll go back.

He can almost make himself believe it, too.

It isn't hard to slink around the side of the little house and stay hidden in the growing shadows. It's easy to find a good spot where he can see _in _but they shouldn't be able to see _out, _and he waits.

The window's a kitchen window, and inside there's the living room in the back, a TV, a couch. There's a counter with a cactus—Jessie's favorite, cacti—and a kitchen table where the husband is laying down silverware and plates.

He's laughing, and Reese remembers him. A friendly guy, he'd thought. A nice guy, kind of bland but _safe. _

And then there's Jessie with a baby in his arms, and Reese can't breathe. Twin stabs of pain, one deep in his ribs and the other in his newest scar, pull him back, and he realizes that he was stretching out his hands.

Jessie puts the baby, her baby, in a high chair and the husband, Peter, grabs dinner. They settle down to eat, laughing at each other and the baby.

_Just one look, _he'd told himself. One little look, and then he'd go back.

He presses a hand to his chest, curling over the newest wound. They look happy, in their home by the sea. They look like a family.

_Leave, _hisses a voice that sounds suspiciously like Cara in the back of his mind. _Leave before they see you. _

But John Reese doesn't leave. He can't move his feet. He's caught now, pulled in.

_Jessie, _he thinks, _Jessie, Jessie, Jessie. _

He watches for a long, long time, as the shadows deepen around him, and he doesn't notice the blinking red camera light across the street, watching everything with its single, cool eye.


End file.
